What Makes a King?
by sazza-da-vampire
Summary: Family Matters. " I will not send my people to certain death. Not now, not ever." Oropher is dead. Thranduil is now King of the Greenwood. Sauron is stronger than even, and the siege on Mordor is fruitless. Elves are dying by the thousands. Hope is all but lost. Thranduil confronts Gil-galad and Elendil, making it very clear what kind of King he intends to be.


Disclaimer: I own nothing recognisable

What Makes a King?

Tents were strewn across the field, forming a city filled with ghosts. The few soldiers still living had long since packed their gear, congregating in one section of the once-bustling city of tents.

Black clouds filled the sky, staining the weak light grey. No wind stirred on this forsaken desert, making water more precious than mithril to the warriors. The marshes to the north were already being called the Dead Marshes, for no warrior who stepped foot in those mosquito-ridden, festering fens survived to tell the tale.

One lone figure strode through the wasteland, long strides carrying him on the wings of his tumultuous emotions. Hooded and cloaked, the figure's identity was hidden, but the bristling weapons strapped to his back made him appear no small threat.

The abandoned sections of the camp had long been stripped of anything useful, from waterskins to weapons, armour to blanklets. Too many lives had already been lost in this fruitless war for those who remained to risk being caught ill-equipped.

The lone figure did not hesitate when he re-entered populated areas of the long, drawn-out city of tents. Keeping his fierce pace, he marched on fleet feet, head down and hood up. A great spear was grasped in his hand, and those who saw the swords at his hips and the knives at his back drew back in fear, even those Men and Elves with the strongest hearts.

When he reached a great tent, taller and wider than any other, the figure turned, though he did not slow his pace. Guards blocked the entrance, but the figure simply glared at them, challenging them with hidden eyes, and pushed the spears out of his way with his bare hand.

The guards' protests were lost on the hooded figure, who did not stop until he faced the Kings, Gil-Galad and Elendil.

He burst through the thin flap separating the main tent from the entrance, still ignoring the guards. His spear he threw into the ground with great force, such that it stood upright, quivering, as he glared at the two Kings.

"Oropher," Elendil greeted him, rising from his seat to greet the third King. "We were starting to wonder if you were hiding from us, since you pulled your men from the seige."

Gil-galad, though, was not so quick to welcome the intruder. There was something wrong with the hood, for Oropher rarely wore anything other than his great helm, and the fiercely proud King would usually saunter in late, having spent time greeting and joking with the guards, any warriors he met upon the way, and even the occasional tree.

"Oropher is dead," the hooded figure stated in a flat voice. "I am now King of the Greenwood," pulling back his deep hood, the young Thranduil revealed himself. His golden hair gleamed in the candlelight, and his eyes shone, hard like flint.

Elendil and Oropher gave their condolences for the loss of the previous Elvenking. To their confusion Thranduil was not fighting tears, as might be expected. Indeed, he seemed not to be saddened at all, but rather maddened. His jaw was set and his eyes hard, and his muscles tensed as if he were ready to fight.

"You let one army be swallowed by the Dead Marshes," Thranduil accused the two other Kings. "You did not join the battle when my army engaged the Enemy. You sit back behind your mithril and your steel while you ask your allies to conduct your siege. If you do not get off your high horses and fight this war which you have started, you will lose what remains of my army."

Gil-galad and Elendil exchanged a glance, before returning their attention to the young new King. The Man drew in a breath, but Thranduil did not let him speak.

"Greenwood's army has lost more soldiers in this war than either of your armies ever had. You had years to prepare, we had days. Your soldiers wear steel armour and mithril helms. Mine wear leather vests. Your soldiers, Men and Elves, are armed with the finest Noldorin steel. Mine bear hunting bows and knives, only a few have even a sword. Ours spears are broken, our King is lost. One of our allies has been driven into the Marshes with all his forces. While my people fight your war, you sit back and make plans which do not include the survival of my army. You do not send your soldiers to the front lines, while you ask mine to lay siege to the Black Land itself. I am not so forgiving as Oropher."

Thranduil paused, glaring quite fiercely into the eyes of the Man and Elf who stood surprised before him, neither having ever doubted that they were doing the right thing by fighting Sauron. The Silvan Elves had been willing to fight, and though they were ill-equipped when compared to Gil-galad's soldiers or Elendil's Men, they had never hesitated to join the Alliance.

Thranduil's accusation was as unexpected as the news of Oropher's death.

_There are two types of Kings,_ he heard his father murmur to him through the mists of time, during the time of peace when the Greenwood was young. Thranduil had been recovering from an embarrassing fall, when a tree had dropped him to the ground far below, breaking his arm.

_The Kings who get things done, and the Kings who sit and talk. Look around you,_ Oropher had said, gesturing to the untamed forest just outside the low flet which served as a healing room. _There would still be a gap between Silvan and Sindar if we talked about everything that might go wrong, or wasted time arguing. Never, ever compromise on something which is of importance to the safety of your realm. Never show weakness. And remember, the life of an Elf is worth far more than the life of a second-born, for there will always be more of the Second-born, but Elves have few children, and their lives are not to be wasted._

Elendil and Gil-galad stayed silent as Thranduil stared, waiting for them to speak. When they did not, he continued. "I am the King of the Greenwood, and I will not waste my people's lives. I will not fight this war for you."

"What is it that you want?" Gil-galad finally asked.

"You to fight your own war," Thranduil immediately answered. "The Greenwood will not stand against Mordor alone, armed no better than a hunting party. Have you walked through the camp, beyond this tent?"

"We have been planning the assault on the Black Gate," Elendil answered, eyes narrowed.

"You have been doing so for a year, and I have not reason to believe you will do anything in the near future. Go outside, look at your soldiers. Then look at mine."

Elendil and Gil-galad again exchanged glances, but they rose from their seats, following Thranduil out of the tent. The camped soldiers surrounded the Kings' tent in a radiating series of circles, with the Men on the right and the Elves on the left. Soldiers bustled through the rows, carrying weapons, armour, food, and occasionally water. The soldiers were all very dirty, and none appeared to have bathed in perhaps a year.

"Water is difficult to come by, if one does not wish to drink the mires," Elendil commented. Thranduil shook his head. "Look at them, full of hope, healthy and strong. Each soldier has a helm of mithril, and a sword of the finest Noldorin steel. Those with bows have strong bows meant to be used as weapons, and their arrows are tipped with steel, sharp and deadly. One well-placed arrow can kill an orc, one wound from a longsword cn fell any foul beast."

"That is the point of weaponry," Gil-galad observed. "One is hardly able to fight without adequate weapons."

"Come," Thranduil said, striding away through the Elvish side of the camp. Gil-galad and Elendil hurried to catch up, for though they were very tall, Thranduil was taller, and had the longer stride.

They soon reached the edge of the populated area of the camp, followed by a few guards. Thranduil kept striding on, through the desolate field, past the carcasses of tents, picked clean of anything of use.

The irate Elvenking did not pause or slow as he led the two other Kings through the ghostly campsite. Elendil's eyes were wide, for her had known that the Greenwood army had lost many soldiers, but he had not realised how many – for already, they had walked past more tents than his entire army used. All of them were empty, silent, and stripped of all useful items.

Finally, after a long, hurried, uncomfortable time, they reached the area of the camp where Thranduil's remaining soldiers lived. Thranduil stopped a short way into the populated section, turning to face Elendl and Gil-galad.

"Look at these people. What do you see?" Thranduil asked.

Gil-galad's brows were knit into a deep frown as he gazed about the campsite. The once glorious and grand army was diminished, having lost well more than half of its number already. The Greenwood army had originally vastly outnumbered both Gil-galad's and Elendil's armies, but now it was diminished, and the Elves who stumbled from one tent to another, darting between the area of shade, were not the strong, determined Elves who had marched south with Oropher.

They wore little or no armour, and those who did had only leather vambraces and corsets. Many of these were ill-fitting, as if the Elves who wore them had lost considerable weight, or were perhaps wearing someone else's armour.

They had knives strapped to backs and belts, and many possessed small bows, slung over their backs, and their quivers were small, holding less than a dozen arrows.

"I will not lead my people to their deaths," Thranduil said, once again claiming Gil-galad and Elendil's attention. "If you want this siege to continue, do not rely on the Greenwood to do your dirty work. I will not send my people to certain death. Not now, not ever."


End file.
